Eagle of Masyaf
by Lady of Eryn Galen
Summary: After the successful assassination of Majd Addin Malik is stuck with Altaïr until further notice. Struggling to accept the changes he sees in his former friend, Malik sends Altaïr out on a simple errant. Of course nothing is ever simple when one is the eagle of Masyaf.


There is a tiny reference to Legacy (my last fic featuring Faheem and Umar, said fathers) later on but you don't have to read it to understand this one. If you're wondering just what the conversation on top of the tower at Masyaf is about, I do recommend reading it. You don't have to, the plot doesn't change either way, but for those of you who are curious^^

Anyways, I hope you enjoy my writing. See ya at the end.

* * *

It was done. Majd Addin was dead.

And Altaïr lay curled up on the many cushions outside the Jerusalem Assassin bureau, sleeping quieter than the dead rested, oblivious to the calculating stare leveled on him. He just slept on, no snores and no sudden twitches that one saw in a normal man caught in dreams, his robes folded neatly beneath his head. Somehow he could have all the pillows and cushions in the city and he would still prefer using the rough fabric to rest his head on.

Peculiar. _Typical._

Still, without the hood and stark white clothing, without the many weapons strapped to his body, he looked much younger than Malik was used to. Almost like the humble but rash young man he had been before his promotion to Master, like the humble but wiser man he was slowly transforming into. And no matter how much Malik would like to deny it, even he could see it. And he had all reason not to see it.

He shook his head quickly to rid himself of the memories threatening to overwhelm him and turned back to the half written letter spread out before him, the paper weighted down with a few heavy stones one of the novices – not Altaïr – had been thoughtful enough to collect for him soon after he had taken up his position at the bureau. It was a report to Al Mualim of Altaïr's success, carefully worded to not let Malik's displeasure at a mission well done bleed into it, and would have to be sent back to Masyaf by morning. Altaïr still would have to report back to the Grand Master himself soon but for now his orders had him stay in Jerusalem until further notice. As Altaïr had managed to fulfill his task without the city guard once seeing his face that meant he would not have to leave very often to silence witnesses.

As one could probably imagine, Malik was overjoyed. Ecstatic even.

He had a feeling Al Mualim merely wanted his former favorite out of the way for a few weeks, perhaps give Malik someone to terrorize with his recently very explosive temper who was actually capable and _willing_ to talk back should it get out of hand, and did not appreciate it at all.

He only hoped there would be enough missions to occupy the _Novice –_ Altaïr had actually gained quite a few ranks since his demotion but Malik chose to overlook that fact – and keep him out of Malik's sight. Their former grudging respect and Altaïr's obvious changes for the better be damned; Malik did not want to have to look at his infuriating face more often than he needed to. A feeling many of his brothers shared, he was sure.

Not that it mattered, a favorite was a favorite and with Altaïr's undeniable skill his status as such was justified. As much as it irked Malik to admit it Altaïr was the best, reckless and arrogant but the best.

With a heavy sigh Malik regarded the letter before him, cocked his head left and right as if that would change its content and then ripped it off the table, crumbling it in his remaining hand. One of the stones was swept onto the floor with the sudden movement, clattered across the sandstone with a noise that seemed loud enough to wake the dead after the long silence and finally stopped on the threshold to the yard at the same time Altaïr poked his head inside, blinking blearily at Malik.

"Did the Templars appear?"

As surprised by the immediate reaction as he was Malik covered it with a disdainful snort. "Not unless you called them," he barked and went to retrieve the stone by Altaïr's boot. The former Master eyed him with wide amber eyes, stepping back mechanically, and cocked his head in that birdlike manner that had earned him his nickname of _Eagle_. That and the fact that he was more bird of prey than man most days; a trait that made him even more efficient than his prodigal talent already did.

Right now Altaïr seemed a very tired and confused eagle. "Why would I do that?"

 _Because you are a fool whose arrogance makes him believe that neither the Creed nor God's law apply to him! Because you have challenged the Templar Order once before and led to my beloved brothers death with your actions!_ As tempting as those words were, as true as they were, when Altaïr looked at him the way he now did – with questioning eyes void of any feeling of superiority but filled with an innocence a man could only possess when the world of waking had not yet fully replaced the world of dreams, an innocent Altaïr seemed to have buried deep inside himself after Umar's death – his anger did not quite reach his heart.

Instead he sighed. "You wouldn't; that was entirely the point of the question," he grumbled. For good measure he added a "Novice" but Altaïr did not seem to notice or mind.

"Oh," he murmured, hiding a jaw-cracking yawn behind his maimed hand, "of course. Forgive me."

Malik's eyebrow twitched. "Go back to sleep," he ordered sharply as he turned back towards his writing utensils. "You look dead on your feet."

But Altaïr, being who he was, ignored him and followed him into the bureau's main room, tentatively as if he expected to be thrown out any moment. Tempting.

"I doubt I can," he said around another, smaller yawn, "now that I am awake." He shrugged. "What are you doing? What do you need those stones for?"

Despite his better judgment Malik did not throw said stones at the Great Eagle's head. "I am writing to Al Mualim," he answered truthfully. "And I need the stones to keep the paper from slipping away. You know, because I am missing a hand now." The last part came out much harsher than he had intended and a small spike of guilt tore through him when Altaïr flinched, paled and lowered his gaze to his bare feet. Damn. Without his hood everything the former Master would usually hide was plain to see, every reaction and every suppressed emotion as clear as the day.

"Oh." Malik bit his lip but didn't speak. He didn't know what to say. Altaïr on the other hand seemed to collect his thoughts quickly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No." Again harsher than intended and without thinking. "Nothing," Malik added, more quietly. "I will let you know."

Altaïr nodded. "All right," he said and forced an incredibly brittle smile. It tore at Malik's defenses to see it, chipping away at the ice steadily. "I will be outside should you need me."

By God, Malik felt like he had kicked a dog begging for scraps at a heavily laden table. Where was the pride and arrogance he had so passionately hated only moments ago? Gone with the wind, apparently.

"Wait," he called. Altaïr froze in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "I am almost out of ink."

Altaïr blinked owlishly at him. "Ink?" he echoed.

Again Malik felt his eyebrow twitch. "Yes, ink," he barked with less heat than before. "Did the Master not only take your rank but your hearing as well?"

"For a moment I feared he might have."

Malik snorted. "Think what you will but it remains true that I would rather avoid going out just for a pot of ink," he said, bracing his hand on his hip. "Climbing out is quite the task and even the most oblivious of man will notice a one-armed man in these robes." He gestured down at himself, keenly aware of Altaïr's intense stare watching his every movement. He seemed much more awake now than before. "So you go. You want to help, this is how you help me. There is a merchant to the north that sells exceptional ink; I use it for my maps. You cannot miss him."

To his surprise Altaïr nodded and leaned down to take up the robes that he had subconsciously brought along with him upon waking and then dropped on the threshold. "As you wish."

Perplexed at Altaïr's ready acceptance of the task Malik tossed him a small pouch with...special herbs that Altaïr caught without looking. "Give him these," Malik said. "It is all the payment he wants and once he sees it he will know for whom the ink is."

Altaïr nodded, stored the pouch in his belt and then he was gone. Malik continued staring at the spot Altaïr had been for a few moments before he sighed, took up another piece of paper and continued pondering the message.

In the end he decided on _The eagle has brought in another mouse_ and then settled in to wait with the bit of ink left, one of his unfinished maps of the city and a cup of tea.

Hopefully Altaïr would not be too long.

* * *

Malik had spoken true; the merchant had not been hard to find. Of course Altaïr had an unfair advantage over most people but anyone could have found this merchant. He was small and thick around the waist and covered in so much ink that Altaïr thought for a moment that he must use it to bathe. The very next moment he grimaced at the incredible stink the man emitted. All right, not bathe then. Ever.

Altaïr had though he would have to wait for some time before he could even begin his search as he had left when the sun had reached its zenith, a time where every citizen of Jerusalem except for the guards retreated to the cool interior of houses or churches to escape the relentless heat. It was much the same in Damascus, only Acre did not have this problem; the sea air did much to make mid-day easier to handle. That the ink merchant didn't seem to know that the heat was bad for his body turned out to be a blessing in disguise for Altaïr as he really did not need to search long.

"Ah, a customer!" the man exclaimed, throwing his arms wide and sending a wave of stink in Altaïr's direction that had his eyes water. Was Malik attempting to poison him? Not that he didn't have reason to but this was just not fair. "How may I be of service my young friend?"

Altaïr had not pulled his hood all the way down for this small trip and it now made things easier. Many people avoided dealing with a man whose face they could not see, which served the Assassins well but did not help when they needed to interact with someone innocent of any crimes. Their appearance intimidated potential sources and scared away potential leads. So now, with his eyes clearly visible – and unfortunately luminous in the bright sunlight, the disadvantage of his condition – and his hair falling into his face, he appeared as just another young man.

He took the pouch from his belt and tossed it to the merchant who caught it with far less grace than Altaïr had before. "I was told to give you this," he said, trying to keep his voice light. He was not used to talking with people, especially not concerning business like this, and had to keep himself from using his usual tone. The deep growl would not serve him well here.

The man eyed the pouch curiously, pulled at the strings and extracted a leaf of... _Why would Malik give him something like that? Was he insane?!_ The merchant only sniffed at the potent drug, sighed happily and then grinned at Altaïr. He was missing a few teeth.

"A friend of Malik, are we?"

Altaïr blinked and jerked his head back, uncomfortable. "Well, I would not call us friends precisely."

The man hummed. "Oh, so 'friends', are you?" he whispered conspiratorially, wagging his eyebrows. Altaïr was tempted to bury his hidden blade – which he hadn't brought – in the man's throat for an assumption like that but settled for a seething glare, strengthening it with the short activation of his second sight. The man paled accordingly. "P-please forgive me! I was merely jesting!"

Altaïr rolled his eyes, sighed and then shook his head. "Fine, fine," he said with a wave of his hand. "Just give me the ink and be done with it."

The man flew to comply and dropped one pot into Altaïr's outstretched hand – the right one to hide his missing finger – before quickly retreating to the back of the stall. Altaïr lifted a finger to his hood in parting, turned a corner and scaled a building to reach the roof. He felt much more comfortable to sit here instead of a bench down in the streets and so he slumped against the wall of a roof garden, rolling the ink pot around his hand. It was a nicely worked clay thing, round and with swirling decorations on the lid that reminded him of the waves in the harbor of Acre. The wax that sealed the pot bore the same decorations, probably the merchant's sign. He had seen one just like it before, in the bureau but never before that. Malik had not drawn as many maps during their youth as he was now. And it was all Altaïr's fault.

He shook his head at himself. It was not like him to be this easily depressed, especially not about something he could not change anymore than the weather. He had received punishment and was punishing himself enough as it was, his emotions did not need to continue to overwhelm him as well.

An Assassin must always be in control of himself. That was one of the first lessons their instructors taught them; Al Mualim had been very strict about enforcing it. Altaïr had failed that lesson spectacularly and see where it had gotten him.

Altaïr sighed. He should probably go back before Malik mobilized every Assassin in the city to drag him back to the bureau by the scruff of his neck just so he could verbally flog him. Of actually flog him. Altaïr was not quite sure how far Malik had received permission to go but he had a feeling Al Mualim had not been very specific. He would probably have to draw the line at death.

Altaïr stood and reached up to adjust his knife's harness only to be reminded that he had left _that_ at the bureau as well, just like his sword and throwing knives. Speaking of weapons, he wondered were his crossbow had disappeared to over the years – he probably had Abbas to thank for that, the snake – and when he would get his favorite sword back from Al Mualim.

"Help! Somebody, please!"

Both would come in very handy right about now. He sprinted across the roof, jumped the gap between two houses, and leaned over the edge to look down into the street that had been empty only moments ago.

A group of five men, big and strong looking, unwashed and glowing a dim red in his second sight, had surrounded a young woman dressed in little more than rags and crowded her against a wall. One of the men, possibly the leader, moved uncomfortably close to her and set his hand in a decidedly not appropriate place. The young woman cried out in terror, twisting like a snake in the man's hold, and called again for help.

Altaïr bit his lip and contemplated his possibilities. He could jump down and take the men on, defend the poor girls virtue and dispose of trash in the process, or he could for once ignore what was happening and return to Malik before he got really mad. The second option was more tempting than the first, mostly because Altaïr had never excelled in unarmed combat though Rauf would probably disagree with him there (as would Malik but Altaïr had no way of knowing that) and he was not ready to lose his life to some random thugs.

On the other hand, Malik would skin him alive if he ever found out he did not help a defenseless woman. A defenseless, innocent woman that would be no more than spoiled goods should these man have their way; a young girl really whose life would be ruined and worth nothing as soon as she was tainted by a man's seed.

The desperate sobs down below decided him. He groaned, drew hid hood deep over his eyes and dropped down into the street as graceful as a cat. None of the six noticed him at first, a bit of good fortune for Altaïr as that way he was able to grab and break the necks of two men before their companions could react.

A stunned silence settled over the remaining three man and the girl. Altaïr inclined his head toward her and then jerked it towards an ally. She understood, mouthed a quick thank you and bolted. None of the man reacted, their eyes flickering between their dead friends and the slender man in white who had so casually killed them.

"You filthy bastard," one of them whispered, then roared wordlessly and lunged at Altaïr.

Altaïr sidestepped him, hooked his arm around the thick neck and brought the man down with a twist of his upper body. He wasn't sure if he had killed him or just stunned him. Either way, he was not getting up anytime soon.

The other two meanwhile realized Altaïr was not to be fought barehanded and had drawn the swords at their hips. One tried to slash at him, a dismayed scream on his lips.

Altaïr ducked, rolled, sprang back on his feet. The movement made him keenly aware of the ink pot at his waist and he cursed inwardly. Maybe he should have left that _on the damned roof!_ The men used his short moment he was inattentive and attacked. He barely had time to bend forward, one blade barely passing over his back, before the second tried to cut his legs out from under him.

He threw himself sideways, landed heavy on his back. The bigger of the two men brought up his sword but Altaïr saw the move and jumped back up just as the blade impacted with the ground where his head had been. Altaïr didn't stop to think, kicked out with his leg. His foot collided with the mans knee, shattering the kneecap. He went down with a holler.

He landed on his blade, pinning it between his body and the ground.

Altaïr cursed once more. There was no time to retrieve the weapon with the last thug swinging wildly at him. He danced back, and back and back, looking for an opening. He was so intend that he did not notice the man he had thought he had knocked unconscious get back to his feet, club in hand.

Only a slight stirring of air warned him of the incoming strike and time seemed to slow almost to a standstill as he swiveled his head just in time. The club was aimed at his shoulder, too low to duck under. He could not drop either or the swordsman would impale him. One thing left to do.

He jumped, bracing for impact. The club collided painfully with his ribs, only his belt preventing it from breaking bone, and catapulted him away from the wall and into open space. Perfect. He ducked and rolled again, coming up in a crouch, slashed the blade of his hand up and outwards, knocking the incoming strike of the sword aside. The man gasped and then found himself impaled on his own blade, twisted from his hand.

The blade lodged on the thugs ribs so Altaïr could not retrieve the weapon. He pushed the man away from himself and towards the last standing man. The thug instinctively tried to catch his friend, giving Altaïr the opening he needed. This time he made sure to break the man's neck.

Silence settled once more over the street, oppressive this time. The people had heard or even seen the fight from their windows and now hid away from the man in white. That suited Altaïr just fine.

What did not suit him was, when he looked down, the growing _ink stain on his robes!_

"Oh no!" he groaned, reached into his belt and retrieved the cracked ink pot. The lid had been torn off when he had allowed himself to be hit and the rim was now missing a piece. He sighed, resigned to his fate. Malik was going to murder him for sure this time.

"Infidel, die!" And there came the city guard.

Winded from the previous fight and in pain where the club had landed, not to mention his bruised ego from being unable to protect a _pot of ink,_ Altaïr turned on his heel and bolted down the same alley the girl had though there was no sign of her. Smart woman.

He rounded a corner, jumped, grasped a wooden beam. In less time than it took to blink he had heaved himself onto the roof and into a garden there, resigning himself to waiting out the time it took for the guards to give up.

Knowing Jerusalem, as well as his rotten luck, that might take a while. Against his better judgment Altaïr curled up on the hay covering the floor of the garden, sat the pot down a little out of arms reach and closed his eyes. His earlier fatigue caught up with him within seconds and he was asleep before the first guard had alerted his comrades.

He did not wake until the sun had set.

* * *

Malik was not worried. He was most decidedly not worried. At all! And whoever claimed different could prepare himself for a very unpleasant cleaning session of the bureau.

No, he was not worried. He was reasonably concerned, and with good reason.

The sun had already set over Jerusalem, the stars were out and the moon bright enough that Malik had not lightened a candle, and Altaïr was not yet back from his small shopping excursion. On the one hand Malik was amazed and somewhat impressed that Altaïr would manage to completely fail at buying a pot of ink. On the other hand the man needed to be alive to finish cleansing the Holy Land of Templar scum.

Also, it would be a damn shame if such talent was lost to the City of Jerusalem. Especially because Altaïr the fool had left all his weapons at the bureau when he left and an Assassin should always die fighting and with honor.

Malik sighed. Kadar had.

His little brother had fought bravely, using many moves he had learned from both Malik and Altaïr separately, and probably saved Malik's life doing it. The order should be proud to have raised such a fine young man, and the order should have acknowledged him more than it had.

He blinked rapidly against the sting of tears, his hand unconsciously moving to grip the stump of his arm. He would gladly give his other arm, his legs and even his life to have his brother be alive.

He wondered fleetingly what his father would have said if he had lived to see the death of his youngest son. He wondered how Faheem would have reacted to his close friend Umar's son being responsible for it. He had heard the story how both Faheem and Umar had discussed the names of their first born sons, how they had sat on the roof of the tower at Masyaf and stared at the stars, joking about the future. The peaceful times, Faheem had called it.

Malik wondered what both of them would have said knowing Altaïr – once a sweet faced and bright eyed child, adored but kept at arms length by his father – had turned into a man that had forgotten how to honor the creed.

And he wondered if there was such a thing as redemption and, if there was, if Altaïr was worthy of it.

He sighed. Being alone for so long was not good for his mind, he decided and harshly tugged one of his maps out from under the table only to remember that he had run out of ink hours ago.

Malik was almost relieved at the returned annoyance. He was even ready to accept that, yes, he was worried about the damn birdbrain of an Assassin. A Master, if not by rank then by ability, should have been back not even an hour after departing.

Frustrated at his own feelings Malik began to pace the bureau, would have crossed his arms if possible, and worried his lower lip. Maybe something had happened. Maybe Altaïr really did lay in a dark alley somewhere, gutted like an animal. He might have even been captured and sold. He remembered that Altaïr had inherited his fathers good looks, as well as his mother's soft elegance, as Faheem had called it. Some men liked that.

No. No, no, no! Altaïr would not let himself fall prey to slavers. He would make them pray.

 _Without his weapons?_ a mocking voice said in his mind. It sounded strangely like the man in question himself. _Do you truly believe that?_

Malik growled. Of course he did. Altaïr knew damn well how to fight without weapons, he had been trained to know.

 _Just like he was trained to respect the creed?_ the voice asked sweetly and Malik grit his teeth.

That was different. Besides, Altaïr had never left a mission unfinished before, he would not do so now. Not when Al Mualim himself had entrusted him with it.

 _People die. Even the best._

That he knew. All too well. Perhaps it would be better to wake the novices and have the search for a downed eagle in the city? No, he was being ridiculous. Or not?

Hatred and old friendship waged a fierce war inside Malik's mind but came to an abrupt agreement to do nothing when Altaïr himself suddenly dropped into the courtyard.

Malik froze for a moment with relief, remembered he was supposed to be furious and settled for anger. "You damned fool!" he barked, storming out to confront the former Master before he had even time to straighten himself. "How hard can it be to buy one miserable pot of ink? Huh? What took you so—what happened to you?!"  
Altaïr's robes were dark around his waist, the stains spread out from one spot just below the belt. For a moment Malik thought it was blood but when he realized Altaïr was neither pale nor walking hunched over he surmised that this must be the ink he had "ordered".

When Altaïr sheepishly handed him what remained of the ink he could only raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"Well..." Altaïr looked strangely like a child at Masyaf that had been caught playing with the wooden swords instead of doing his reading. "I was on my way back when..." He explained quickly what had happened and in the following silence he fidgeted terribly.

A tiny spark of affection flared in Malik's breast for a moment, warming him from the inside, before he attempted to stomp it out. That the formerly so proud and arrogant Assassin would feel guilty about losing a bit of ink because he had kept a girl from being raped...it reminded Malik of the boy he had grown up with so long ago. Maybe redemption was not impossible.

Of course he would never say so out loud. Instead he sighed. "You will get me a new one tomorrow!" he instructed harshly though his words lacked bite. Altaïr perked up, his eyes glowing golden in the light of the moon. "Now get cleaned up!"

Altaïr hastened to comply. The ink would take days to wash off but Malik thought he could probably find someone who would do it for a small fee. Altaïr would not have to know about it.

He watched the other man carefully peel away the stained fabric from his skin, noted the way he stiffened ever so slightly when he lifted his left arm and caught the heavy bruising before Altaïr could hide it from him.

Malik arched an eyebrow but said nothing. He went back inside, listening to the shuffling of light boots on tile. When Altaïr followed him a few moments later, his spare robes hanging over his arm and the dirtied ones probably lying in a corner, Malik tossed a small jar of pain and swelling relieving slave at him.

"Use this. We need you fully functional."

Altaïr stared at the jar for a long moment, then he closed his fingers around it with a tiny smile.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it," Malik answered. He tapped the half empty ink pot, shrugged again. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Altaïr smiled, the subtle curve of his lips making him look younger than normal. It was almost like they were back at Masyaf, small children without worries.

Malik shrugged, turned away to hide his own reluctant smile.

He would never be able to forget what Altaïr had done, no matter how hard he tried. The pain was too deep, the betrayal to ugly, that which was lost too precious.

But, perhaps he could work past the hate he was already losing his grip on. Perhaps he could take the step away from his own stubbornness that was needed to start healing. Perhaps he could try to get to know this new Altaïr, the one that had once been the real Altaïr, and let the arrogant favorite of the Mentor rot away to nothingness in his mind.

Malik glanced over his shoulder at Altaïr who was now busying himself with lightening a fire, treating his wound. He nodded to himself.

He would never forget.

But perhaps, one day, he could forgive.

* * *

Heiya^^ Thanks for reading! Lemme know what you think, and if you have any requests about these two dorks I'd be happy to recieve them. I'm no good at romance, especially since I don't actually ship AltMal in any sense other than deep friendship, but I'm open to anything else.

Love and bye!


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